


there is no one compares with you

by absopositivelutely



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Crowley-centric (Good Omens), M/M, Parallel Universes, crowley has a record collection, i have no idea how to explain this entire concept, in a kind of convoluted way tho, trust me that's relevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21728134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absopositivelutely/pseuds/absopositivelutely
Summary: There are 1,136 universes where the world ends.Crowley wonders if falling in love is inevitable in every universe; perhaps they always will, at the end of eternity.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 32





	there is no one compares with you

**Author's Note:**

> hello! okay, so, this is...a concept. i will explain the premise at the end for clarification, but i'm really hoping you get it. anyways this came about after [tenner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenner) asked me to write something about crowley's music collection, and then somehow i combined that with parallel universes, and now i have...this. i basically rewrote the entire thing because i did not love how it initially turned out, but after fighting with it for months this is what we've got! it is quite short but i think i am happy with how it turned out. 
> 
> title is from _in my life_ by the beatles.
> 
> really hope you enjoy :)

* * *

listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go.

— [ _pity this busy monster, manunkind_ ](https://web.cs.dal.ca/~johnston/poetry/pitmonster.html), e. e. cummings

* * *

Humans don’t invent music. There have always been celestial harmonies; the high, clear notes sung by binary stars as they circle around each other; the low resonance of a black hole. Only divine beings can hear these. But Crowley thinks there is something of this to be heard in the music that humans create, something greater than them that is woven in their rough melodies; almost like their music is a way they can capture the essence of the universe for a few heartbeats, pulling the vastness of existence into the ordered form of a handful of notes.

If Crowley concentrates hard enough, the edges of his consciousness can just brush against that of an alternate plane of time and space. This isn’t the same handful of void he folds his wings into, nor the pocket dimension he catapulted himself, Aziraphale, and Adam into at the end of the world. This is a universe removed from his own, one that not even God has power over. 

There are 1,137 alternate universes out there, to be exact. Crowley collects them in the form of melodies and counterpoint harmonies, their outlines pressed into wax cylinders and vinyl discs.

* * *

In 332 universes, Crowley doesn’t fall.

If he thinks too hard, the edges of every note he hears are ragged, and he feels as if he is yearning for something more when he listens, like there is something missing. It is an ache that never quite goes away, no matter how many years pass. 

In a tavern in Rome, he wonders out loud what having Her love is like. Aziraphale can’t seem to put it into words, but Crowley knows the look in his eyes is pity. 

* * *

Crowley still shapes the stars. He thinks there is something about the quiet void of space that is written into the empty space between the pieces of his soul. 

He has not yet met many other angels in this universe. Instead, he keeps company with supernovas and galaxies, watching moons sing to planets and stars call out to black holes.

* * *

Crowley is an Archangel in five universes. Raphael, he was called. Angel of healing. 

He knows that in those universes, he is happy. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine what it might feel like to have the power to heal in his hands, a warm golden glow diffusing out from his chest down to his fingertips. He remembers, in this universe—demonic energy struggling against the bonds he forced them into, holding a raft together, a group of children clinging to each other in the middle of the flood. 

The recording crackles with nostalgia. He didn’t know you could miss what you never had, but he does. A flame materializes on his palm, and he pretends its warmth doesn’t harm, but heal.

* * *

He keeps plants in Heaven, still. He sings for them, sometimes, coaxing past lives back into their wilted leaves. 

Even in Heaven, Aziraphale insists on doing his magic act without miracles. For Crowley, he tends to his plants with human hands, soil under his nails and life between his fingers.

* * *

There is a universe where he is human, a universe where Aziraphale is human, and a universe where they are both human. There is one thing all three have in common: they fall in love.

It always comes down to time, in the end. Humans run out of time so quickly, they have to make the most of it. In the end, the universe keeps time for them.

Crowley wonders if falling in love is inevitable in every universe; perhaps they always will, at the end of eternity.

* * *

They are both human in the first universe where they dance together. The record is well-worn; he knows every click, every hiss it makes as the needle drags over it. 

Aziraphale still has a bookshop. He is predictable like that. He closes up early one day when Crowley is in the shop, setting up an old record player in the back room.

“You know I don’t know how to use it,” Aziraphale says. 

“Well, I do. Figured I’d get you one since I keep most of my records here anyway,” Crowley answers. There are three quick beats that lead into the song. He holds his hand out, and Aziraphale follows in his steps.

* * *

In 803 universes, Crowley falls. 

What is the point, he wonders, of being created an angel, when falling seems to be what he is made for? But then, perhaps angels were made to fall. There is no other use for their wings, after all.

He doesn’t fall suddenly. It is the elegant transition between movements, a shift into a minor key. It is almost too easy, once he begins to question. 

In some universes, he isn’t sure what is holding him together. It is not too difficult to tell when the melody is about to fall apart, notes straining against the beat, and that is true of Crowley in a handful of universes in which he has fallen. They shuffle their feet with an emptiness in their eyes that the Crowley of this universe is too afraid to look into. 

* * *

Yearning comes in the shape of an accelerando, pushing forward in search for more. In this universe, Earth is not enough for Crowley. There are scales running down the length of his spine, cool to the touch; there is something _more_ in his yellow eyes, fire burning dangerously at the edges of his irises. This Crowley belongs in hell, and knows it.

The sword is a sharp line pressed against his throat. The music skips a beat, the record player’s needle catching. For a moment, Crowley does not breathe.

“Don’t,” he rasps out. Aziraphale is bright with angelic righteousness; he is still breathtaking, Crowley thinks, despite it all. The sword hums with holy light, and Crowley feels his soul being taken apart, dismantled piece by piece almost tenderly. He lets out a shuddering breath. “Aziraphale.”

The sword’s edge threatens to catch against his skin, and then Aziraphale lowers it. 

“Don’t hurt them,” he says, voice low and tremulous. “I know you’re a demon. But you don’t have to be so cruel.”

“It’s what I _do,”_ Crowley hisses, from between teeth too sharp to be human. There is silence for a moment; the space between two notes, stretched too thin.

“You’re more than that,” Aziraphale insists. Something unspoken shifts between them, the key modulating, an intangible weight pushing against Crowley’s chest.

* * *

There are 149 universes where he doesn’t meet Aziraphale. 

Crowley falls in most of them. It is fitting, he thinks, that Heaven is a waltz, a carefully choreographed dance, stepping from side to side, brushing past each other with heads lifted high. Edging around a precipice, never asking why.

He asks Aziraphale, once, after the world in this universe doesn’t end. “Did I deserve to fall,” he whispers, the syllables hissing out from between his teeth.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says, voice open and bare. He is an angel and always radiates love, but in this moment it is almost tangible, fingers curling through Crowley’s hair, hand pressed against his heart. There are so many things that can be said in the space of three heartbeats; one phrase of a waltz’s melody, one _I love you,_ a fall in and of itself. 

Crowley breathes out slowly into the space between him and Aziraphale, almost nonexistent here on Earth, but impossibly far on the divine plane. 

* * *

“We don’t _have_ to fight,” Crowley says, softly. He shifts, tensing his muscles. The stone wall encircling Eden is rough beneath his feet. Katzfiel raises his sword. Lightning sings down the length of the blade.

“You’re here to ruin things for me,” the angel says. “And for them,” he adds, motioning to the humans. 

“You don’t even know me,” Crowley says. Katzfiel, he realizes, does not _want_ to know him.

The sword rings with a pure, bell-like tone, angelic divinity emanating from its sharp edges. Crowley closes his eyes. There is everything and nothing and— 

* * *

There are 1,136 universes where the world ends.

Every song comes to an end, after all. Crowley closes his eyes when the record stops playing, letting himself live in the silence between the end of one life and the beginning of the next. He wonders at the inevitability of it all, sometimes. Perhaps every universe is destined to come to an end. Eternity is a concept not even he can wrap his mind around; he came into existence before time did, after all. Celestial beings can afford not to worry about the passing of time.

Here on Earth, though, time matters more. In a park in London, Crowley asks Aziraphale what he might lose if Heaven won. Crowley’s name does not pass Aziraphale’s lips, but Crowley catches Aziraphale’s gaze and holds it. The angel’s eyes are the brightest shade of blue he has ever seen. Aziraphale’s lip is caught between his teeth. 

“Perhaps I would lose a lot more than I had thought,” he finally says, quietly, hesitantly.

* * *

Everything goes to plan in this universe. The Antichrist gets switched in correctly, Crowley and Aziraphale follow their orders, and Armageddon is brought into fruition. Humanity is almost nonexistent, and on Earth, Heaven and Hell are at war.

“I can’t,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley shakes his head.

“I’d rather it be you than any of the others,” Crowley says. The flames of Aziraphale’s sword reflect in the angel’s blue eyes. Divine beings don’t quite need a corporation exactly like a human’s, but there is a steady pounding in Crowley’s ears that he thinks is not unlike a heartbeat. It rises to a crescendo. Crowley thinks it feels like drowning.

“I wouldn’t let them hurt you,” Aziraphale whispers. “We could go off together.”

Crowley barks out a laugh that sounds too close to a choked off sob. “Alpha Centauri, yeah?”

Aziraphale nods. He’s crying now. Crowley has to look away. “Good place to listen to celestial harmonies. Like you said. That’s all we’ve got to listen to for eternity when Heaven wins.”

“Right,” Crowley murmurs. Behind Aziraphale, he can see flashes of holy light. He swallows dryly, looks up at Aziraphale, and wonders how he ever thought demons couldn’t sense love. “Got to just get this over with, angel. Before I go, though, you know—you have to know I—”

“I know, dear,” Aziraphale says, impossibly soft. “I do too.”

* * *

The only universe they stop the world from ending in is this one.

There’s something about humans that makes them look towards eternity despite knowing that is not what is promised to them. Crowley thought it was a waste, at first, when they first started to build monuments that would outlast themselves. Now, he thinks it’s something very brave.

There are certain things that quietly resist the passing of time, and this record in particular is one of them. The needle runs into the locked groove and loops infinitely, the same handful of hopeful notes playing for what could be forever, if he wanted them to. 

Aziraphale’s fingers comb through his hair, carefully tugging it out of its ponytail. Crowley closes his eyes and lifts his hand to catch Aziraphale’s, tangling his fingers with the angel’s. They fit together like harmonies intertwine with the melody. Crowley blinks his eyes open when Aziraphale’s fingers trace across his cheekbones. This, he thinks, is something he wants forever.

**Author's Note:**

> basically the idea is that there are parallel universes, which crowley can kind of...see? feel? when he listens to music. so like he's chilling and listening to a record and he's suddenly aware of what he's gone through in another life. however, if anyone has any other interpretations, please do share!
> 
> interesting side notes:  
> \- the [infinite record thing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unusual_types_of_gramophone_records#Sound_recorded_in_locked_grooves) crowley talks about is something that has actually been done!  
> \- i didn't really get to make a bigger deal out of this, but earlier versions of this that i've written mentioned [wax cylinders](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phonograph_cylinder) as a form of recording. i hadn't heard of them before researching older forms of recording! i listened specifically to [waltz of the blue danube](http://cylinders.library.ucsb.edu/detail.php?query_type=mms_id&query=990025193050203776&r=19&of=137). 
> 
> kudos and comments always appreciated :)
> 
> find my art on [tumblr](https://m-9studios.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
